


For Just One Moment

by SylvanWitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Challenge fic, M/M, Song fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 02:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wouldn't have guessed that this song would end up witness to so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Just One Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Originally submitted as part of the LJ comm's rockin_the_80s challenge for George Michael's "Father Figure." Originally posted 1 February 2009.

They’re in a diner outside of Wichita when Dad’s low, assured rumble falters in mid-sentence—something about the difference between spirits and ghosts—Dean’s not entirely sure, since his mac and cheese is really good and they’ve hardly eaten all day.

But the pause is enough to bring Dean’s eyes up to see what’s gotten his father’s attention, looking first at Sam to make sure he’s okay.

Dad’s eyes are fixed on the back of the diner, though, where Dean can see a jukebox.

“What is this crap?” Dad mutters, shaking his head in disgust.  

Dean gets it right away—it’s not their usual music, not anything like what they listen to in the Impala.  He’s spent his short lifetime learning that what Dad believes is right and the rest of the world is wrong, so he doesn’t usually question his father’s judgment.

But something about the song catches his attention, and he listens—he’s good at listening, has to be, since his father relies on him to remember things and to help sometimes on jobs.

**_I will be your father figure, put your tiny hand in mine…_ **

_Sam’s hand is small in Dean’s as he tries to wrap his fingers around the hilt of the knife, steady enough to balance and then throw it.  Dean’s patient, guiding Sam’s hand, bringing his arm back and moving it forward, keeping his wrist straight on the snap as he squeezes a little to get Sam to let go._

_The knife doesn’t have enough momentum to stick, but it strikes the tree trunk  tip-first and kind of wobbles before it falls, and Sam laughs, says “Yes!” and, hand still in Dean’s, makes a fist-pumping motion of victory._

_Dean squeezes again and then lets go. “That’s good, Sammy, but you can do better.  You try it without me, now.”_

“Dean, finish your supper,” Dad gruffs, nodding at Dean’s plate.

Dean does as he’s told.

**_I will be your preacher, teacher, anything you have in mind…_ **

At fourteen, Sam grows four inches and drops forty pounds.  It’s like overnight he’s lost his baby brother and gotten instead an overgrown, awkward, gawky creature.

They’re in their “efficiency” motel room, which means they’ve got a hot plate, tiny fridge, and three chairs instead of the usual two.  Sam’s doing math at the table, Dean flipping through channels on mute, when music starts up next door.

Sam lets out a huff of annoyed air and tightens his hand on his pencil.  

The song is vaguely familiar, and Dean mutters, “What is this crap?” 

Sam doesn’t answer.  With his height, he’d also added an attitude, too, and half the time Dean has no idea what his brother is thinking. 

Predictably, the beat of the music soon has a counterpoint in the rhythm of the headboard pounding against their shared wall.

Dean sneaks a look at Sam and sees his brother staring, mouth agape.  It’s not that they aren’t used to this shit.  They grew up in cheap motels.

It’s probably the duo of distinctly masculine sounds that have Sam wide-eyed and wondering.

Thinking it’s a good time to give his brother grief, Dean gets up from the bed in the stealthy way he has and moves in behind Sam.

He realizes in the second before his hands make contact with his little brother’s shoulders that not only is Sam shaking a little, but he’s sporting an impressive erection, a visible bulge in the hand-me-down jeans he’s wearing.

Too late to pull back, he touches Sam, who jumps, lets out a gust of air, and then erupts from the chair like a geyser and shoves Dean away.

“Asshole!” he shouts, stomping into the bathroom and slamming the door.

Feeling more ashamed than self-satisfied, Dean steps to the door.  He can hear Sammy’s hitched breath through it.  

“Hey, Sam, you okay?”

“Go to hell, Dean!”

“It’s okay, you know.  There’s nothing to be ashamed of.  It’s normal.  Hell, at your age, I got off on Disneyland commercials.”

“When did Disney put in the buttfucking ride, Dean?”

Taken aback at the venom in his little brother’s voice, Dean backs off and returns to his channel-surfing, relieved when Sam emerges a few minutes later and says nothing at all, relieved too that the lovers next door seem to have already moved on.

“I’m not gay,” Sam finally mutters, not looking up.

“Okay,” Dean says, steadily, trying to make it sound like he’s got no opinion.

“Okay,” Sam echoes.

**_For just one moment, to be bold and naked at your side_ **

Twenty-one, and Dean’s wet to his bones, freezing, figuring he’s going to die in these woods and no one will ever know that he was trying to keep people safe.

Hands beneath his armpits haul him upward, and he’s dizzy with the sudden altitude of standing.  

“Sammy?”  He manages.

“Who else would it be, Dean?”

And though his brother sounds annoyed, Dean hears the worry, too.

Sam strips him with efficiency, and Dean doesn’t have the wherewithal to protest, teeth banging together so hard he couldn’t get a word out anyway.

Next thing, he’s splayed across the back seat and Sam is right behind him, naked and warm, tucking them both under the ratty wool blanket they keep in the trunk for emergencies and then sliding one arm under Dean’s neck and wrapping the other around to rest his broad hand against Dean’s middle.

The engine’s running, heat going full blast, radio low, making background noise to his wheezing breath and clacking teeth.

He hears the lyrics, remembers them, even as he feels the swell of his brother’s shaft against his ass.

“Dean,” Sam pleads, whether asking forgiveness or permission, he doesn’t know.

What he does know is that his own belly is filling with a different kind of heat, more than his gooseflesh standing at attention.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he says, and wraps his hand around his brother’s, moving lower.  “That’s good.”

 


End file.
